Burn
by itakethewords
Summary: The woman in his dreams would have already had him on his back. Confidence. And while he knows this woman in his hands now is a very confident creature, she had no idea...Yet.


_**Author's Note**_: _Hey there! Another one-shot fic for Inception for everyone! I meant to have this up hours ago, but a nasty storm knocked my power out! *le gaps*_  
_But anyhow, I have this one up now for your pleasure! Please read and enjoy and remember to leave a review! They are lovely things and they make me smile! Cheers!_

**Edit**: _This story, once upon a time, was rated T. It is now rated M. I felt the rating of T suited it because certain things were only alluded to, not necessarily described or actually enacted. But once I got more than one person suggesting it in the reviews, I went a head and changed it. Congrats, _Inception_. You get my first M-rated story._

_ Disclaimer: I own nothing but the little plot bunny involved._

* * *

They met once every two weeks.

A small, four-star place, out of the way, lost within New York City.

Never on the same day, but never within nine days of each visit. One suite under the name Taylor, two keys only. Same room each time. Room 677, the one with the worst view. But it had the best interior. A trade.

He would arrive first, checking in and making sure the room was set up to standards. Shrug his jacket off, gently laying it on the back of a chair. Open the champagne and pour two even flutes. Then roll up the sleeves of his shirt, slow and sure. And as always, as he would finish, the room door would click open and she would walk in, a small smile on her lips.

His own mouth would curve upward as she walked to him and his embrace. They would hold each other tight, relishing in the fact that they were in each others arms, secure. He would place small, light kisses on her neck, helping her out of her jacket as she would sigh. Her hands would always find his hair first and muss it up, making him look his age, and she'd grin mischievously as he'd purse his lips, fighting a laugh.

Slowly sipping their first glasses of champagne, they would make small talk, delighting in their simple conversation. As each minute went by, the desire in their eyes would grow, like embers in a stoked fire.

It was always different, who made the first move. But quickly, hands would be buried in hair, then tugging at ties and belts. Her dress would drop to the floor, followed by his pressed pants and now wrinkled shirt.

When he'd break their kiss, she would moan lightly, her hands grabbing at his shoulders, kneading them in desperation. His lips would leave a trail, to her chin, jaw, down the slim column of her neck, before leaving open-mouthed kisses on her shoulder. And as one of her hands would wind up to his hair and the other to his arm, he would deftly remove her bra and his hands would ghost along her skin to her waist, a grin on his face and he'd find her lips once more.

Always the vixen, she'd get her revenge for his slow teasing. Nimble hands would find their way between them and she'd give him the lightest brush of her fingertips, causing him to gasp against her mouth. A nip against his lips and a small chuckle before he'd lift her up and gently toss her on the bed.

Deep, meaningful kisses as their hands explored one another. As if for the first time in decades, not just days. Each inch of smooth skin, each freckle was relearned and memorized for the moments they couldn't share.

And when the slow burn in both of them was too much for either of them to handle...

Sighs and whispers, her hands on his back, gripping tight as his muscles clenched in effort. His fingers holding her calf tenderly, the thumb making unconscious caresses. Sweat dripping off his hair, onto her chest, silkily sliding down.

And just as the world seems to explode for them both, they scream _I love you_.

Then he rides the orgasmic kick back to consciousness.

He bolts up in bed, dazed, tense and left wanting more. As he always did. His little dreams had become something akin to an addiction to him. A life he could never have, as he was always alone.

But this time, he wasn't. She'd been sitting next to him on the bed, reading a book. Waiting.

He wants to know how she found him, she says she had her own ways.

Tenderly, she removes the needles and tubes from his arm and sits them aside, smoothing away the pinpoints of intrusion. She hands him a cool bottle of water and waits as he gulps it greedily, smiling as his fingers find her hand and hold on.

She wants to know what he was doing, what he was dreaming about. He finds himself speechless. His voice, hoarse as he tells her she wouldn't care to know.

_We're friends. Right? I'm here to listen._

She asks him to tell her, once more. He looks down at their twined fingers, just realizing their perfect fit. He tells her he could show her, if she wants and its clear she misunderstands him as she goes to eagerly reach for the tubes. He stops her, using their connection to tug her to him and kisses her.

A kiss nothing like their pretend peck in Fischer's mind. This is hot, intense, intent on proving something. His free hand weaves through her thick, luxurious hair, making sure she can't get away. But instead of pulling away, she opens her mouth in encouragement, surprised, but so very glad.

He only stops when he's sure she isn't a part of his dreams. Because the woman in his dreams would have already had him on his back. Confidence. And while he knows this woman in his hands now is a very confident creature, she had no idea...Yet.

Her lips are stained pink, swelling, and her eyes are hooded, clouded and glazed in lust. He can tell she's still slightly confused, which makes him laugh softly and he rests his forehead against hers.

_Are...Is..._

She's breathless, which makes him chuckle.

But before he can pull away, the confident woman emerges and pulls him close for another soul-searing kiss.


End file.
